With Friends like These (A Tribute to the Band)
by Sasha3
Summary: Life in a high school marching band. Yeah, that's pretty much it.


I wish I could tell you a story of adventure, danger, incredible wit, true love, and heroic battles against tyrannical foes… Unfortunately, though, the only story I've got to tell is my own, and life at my high school is pretty normal (or as normal as high school life can get). You'll have to settle for it.  
  
My name isn't important. I could be anyone—that kid who sits in the row beside you in chemistry, or the walking dictionary in your lit class, or the person who always sits by herself at lunch. Heck, I could even be the head cheerleader, student body president, or your best friend.  
  
But since you asked, my name's actually Sasha. That's Sasha Felicity Simpson. It's okay, as names go, I suppose.  
  
Anyway, as I was saying—high school. You've been there. My high school was nothing special; just a few buildings divided into classrooms where students are held captive for eight hours a day, five days a week, nine months a year. It was filled with the usual riff-raff: the jocks, the skaters, the preps, the goths, the geeks, and the freaks. I happened to fall into the lattermost category; more specifically, I was a band freak.  
  
That's right, I was in the high school marching band. I was one of the kids who parades around in those eighty-pound wool uniforms in the hundred-degree heat at the football games. Surprised? A lot of people are. If you weren't a band freak yourself, it's hard for you to relate to us. In telling my story, my ulterior motive is to alter your perspective of us at least a little.  
  
I'll admit that I was incredibly intimidated the first time I came into contact with - band people, which was at band camp. Yes, you heard correctly—band camp, that mythical week before school where band legends are made and broken, and the director pounds you into the asphalt beneath the sweltering sun. To outsiders it's viewed as a bit of extra practice before the term starts, but it's really more of a rite of passage than anything. It's a time of first impressions, where you can prove yourself either a weak fool or a brave fool (since anyone who signs up for marching band has got to be a bit of a fool, anyway).  
  
The band camp schedule was the same all three years I attended: arrive at ten in the morning, and leave at five in the evening—that's one hour less than a regular school day—for five days.  
  
It was a very small-feeling and timid Sasha Felicity Simpson that peeked into the band room that first day. I saw a multitude of people that I'd never seen before, and only a few that I recognized. The room was in total chaos with the clamor of seventy-eight voices, and from every direction there came the glitter of fluorescent lighting off of shiny metal keys and surfaces. The medium-green carpet was studded with irremovable stains (have you ever really looked at the carpet of a well-used band room?), and dozens of plain metal chairs stood in three vague semi-circles centering upon a small, orange-carpeted platform. On that platform was a chair, and in the chair was my new director. I was surprised at his youth—he couldn't have been more than twenty-five or -six, I guessed, looking at his shock of careless dark hair and the energetic quality of his movements. Since I had learned long ago that it was something of an unwritten criterion for band directors to be pudgy, sweaty people, I wasn't surprised at this, but I was impressed that he didn't seem the least bit frazzled by the hurricane of frenzied action all around him. He was taking the unceasing volley of student questions well in stride, pointing kids to their seats with no more than a glance at the instrument case they carried. I found my feet walking up there of their own accord, and when he glanced at me I had an immediate impression of stubbornness and youthful vivacity. 'The director is half the band', they say (what, haven't you heard that one?), and this director's conduct gave me hope. He sent me to the second row, directly in front of his podium.  
  
Before I move on, a bit of explaining is in order. You see, I grew up in a small town in a northern corner of Minnesota. When I was eight, my parents decided to get out of the cold, and we moved a million-million miles to another small town, this one in the Appalachian foothills of North Carolina. My little brothers were only two and three, and my little sister was five, so they hadn't really had the time to connect meaningfully with people in Minnesota, but my older siblings (a ten-year-old brother and a twelve-year-old sister) and I found our lives turned upside-down. Grades four through eight found me virtually without friends—mostly because of my standoffish attitude that masked my painful shyness. (For the record, you should be more kind to kids who act like that.) But near the end of eighth grade, all of that changed. That's when Candace came.  
  
Candace was taller, prettier, and smarter than me. It still beats me why she ever chose me to hang around with, but I'm not complaining because she turned my life around. She had longish copper-red hair and wide blue- green eyes that can only be called intense, and the biggest, most dazzling smile you'd ever seen. She was always laughing at something, and with her broad sense of humor she could make anyone laugh with her. What's more, she brought a flute with her from Kentucky, and joined the band at my junior high. That's where I first met her, and that's where we became friends. It was entirely because of her that I had the range of friends and acquaintances that I did when I entered high school. She was the best friend I've ever had. Come on—everyone's known someone like that.  
  
But for now, back to the band room.  
  
She plopped into the seat next to me, grinning. I promptly dropped my clarinet case and hugged her—she'd spent the past two weeks across the country, visiting relatives, and you should remember what it's like to be separated from your best friend for so long.  
  
"Candace! How was it? Gosh, you got burned…"  
  
With freckles accentuated by the time she'd spent in the sun and the light sheen of sunburn across her cheeks and nose, my best friend laughed. "Of course I did—two weeks in California! Who wouldn't? Did you have fun without me?"  
  
"Yeah, right. I had to baby-sit most of the time…" At this point my sister was in college and my brother a senior in high school—neither could be depended upon to watch the younger kids while mom and dad worked. So I got stuck with the job. Candace often came over to keep me company, but for the past two weeks I had been on my own.  
  
"Ah, it can't be that bad," Candace said, putting her flute together. I picked my clarinet case back up and began assembling my instrument.  
  
"Say, Sash, I've got an idea." Candace looked at me and raised her eyebrows, and in her eye was the same devious glint I'd come to recognize so well. "'Cause, you know, no one here knows what we're like, and…"  
  
I leaned closer. "…And…?"  
  
In the last few moments before class, Candace and I set about personalizing our area. Our director obviously had no idea what he'd done in sitting us next to each other—we figured we'd take it easy, just to warn him. Candace always carried with her a faded blue shoulder bag, and it was always filled with every manner of small oddments—including a tiny kitchen sink (from a dollhouse) in case anyone asked—and these objects came in useful more times than you might think.  
  
By the time the director clapped his hands for silence Candace and I had draped the stand that she and I were to share with police tape and plastic leis, built a Jenga tower out of pens, pencils, and markers, re-enacted a scene from Hamlet with plastic Lion King figurines, and covered everything in the immediate vicinity with various colors of glitter.  
  
The director opened his mouth to speak, and then caught sight of us. He paused with his mouth hanging open, looking at us with the singular most hilarious expression I have ever seen in my life, bar none. By some strange providence, though, the two of us managed not to laugh ourselves into comas and returned his stare solemnly from beneath our crowns—rolls of duct tape covered in small red pins with white writing that said things like I don't speak English, I hate stupid people, and I like Ike.  
  
I could feel the dozens of eyes of those I'd never met as they gaped at us in an incredulous mix of horror and awe. Everything was perfectly still—I counted eleven full seconds before anyone moved—and suddenly out new director burst into laughter. It was the most extraordinary type of laugh, too—deep and rolling and awesomely contagious. Don't you know anyone who laughs like that? Anyway, in two seconds flat the entire room was rolling, half with hilarity and the other half with incredulity. Candace and I shared a triumphant grin—surely no other sophomores had distinguished themselves like this!  
  
Between chuckles the man managed to gasp, "Clean yourselves up." He watched us do so, grinning as though he didn't quite believe we were for real.  
  
"Names," he said, once order had been restored.  
  
"I'm Candace Riley, and this is Sasha Simpson," Candace replied promptly.  
  
"West or East?" The director was referring to the two junior high schools in our county, distinguished by their locations.  
  
"West," I answered. "Both of us."  
  
"And Mr. Hepburn let you two get away with this stuff?" The half- incredulous smile was back again.  
  
"No, sir," Candace replied in her perfected sweet-and-innocent voice. "We never got to sit together after the first day."  
  
The class laughed again and Candace and I grinned delightedly at each other. What she had said was true—our junior high band instructor had been adamant that there be at least three seats between us at all times.  
  
"Well, I'm Mr. Jackson, and I'm going to give you two one try to behave yourselves sitting beside each other. Deal?" He quirked one eyebrow, and I couldn't help but grin.  
  
"Deal," Candace and I replied together.  
  
Such was our introduction to Mr. Benjamin Jackson. He had been directing the band at the high school for four years before we arrived and would continue to do so for many years after we left, but the three short years I spent under his direction will always be cherished in my memory as some of the best times of my life.  
  
Mr. Jackson clapped his hands for attention, and the room quieted.  
  
"Welcome to band camp!" he said cheerfully. 


End file.
